Archive for June, 2008

My pal enc wants these Prada Boots, which Neiman Marcus will gladly provide for $1,200. In a lucky coincidence, I found my self online last night, hypnotized by crazy boots at Amazon.

Once I started looking, I couldn’t stop. It’s like eating Oreo cookies. You must keep going until the package is empty. I found a style that’s similar to the Prada, at a savings of $1,150.

Call me nuts, but I just don’t see why anyone needs Prada. I feel the same about the Lanvin ballet flats. The only reason to pay $500 for them is to feel special for wasting all that money. You can waste only $134 at Sue London for the same buttery soft quality, plus they come with a matching leather shoe bag!

I think I’m as brainwashed as anyone into craving luxury items at insane prices. But more and more, I’m wondering if the initial rush is worth it. Do we really need the tag to say Prada or Chanel to feel good about ourselves? I’m starting to feel “Been there, Done that” about luxury items. But maybe you need to own a beat up, poorly constructed Chanel bag to achieve this attitude.

It’s not like I’ve transcended snobbery or anything. I’d still go barefoot before buying shoes by Jessica Simpson. I still recoil from Juicy Couture. In fact, if I stop, someone call a doctor!

Back to the splendor of the crazy boots at Amazon (and speaking of Doctors) here is one I’d like for the boudoir:

Sometimes, things that are awful bring us joy; but sometimes, they’re just plain awful. Queen Marie was rightly offended by the notion of fake high-heels made for babies. For $35, you can buy a pair of these shoes, put them on a baby and laugh your ass off. Ha ha, look at the baby! You could also put sunglasses and jewelry on the baby and laugh even more. Sister Wolf says, Give that $35 to a homeless shelter and leave the baby alone.

As a fur-lover and proud carnivore, I am usually happy to see fur accessories, but here’s something that shocked me with it’s assaultive ugliness. Not only are these leg-warmers an abomination, they are even sold out! Presumably, whoever bought them is somewhere right now, laughing at babies in high heels.

For the third and final No, I bring you this photo courtesy of The Look-See. These models were used by Yohji, Etro, and Ann Demeulemeester in Milan. They are not conventional male model types, get it? They are old geezers! This is so funny, like high heels on a baby! But I would rather stick with handsome boys.

The moral here is that some people will be fooled into accepting awfulness as some sort of post-modern joke, but We are simply not having it.

I haven’t bought any Play-Doh in years, but I’m very excited about this 50th Anniversary pack, with 50 different colors. Remember how hard it could be to get just the right color?

Actually, I used to be pretty good with Play-doh. I have told this story before but it’s worth telling again because of the Miracle:

When my son was around two years old, I had to watch the O.J. Simpson trial every day, just like everyone else who had a TV. While it was on, my son and I worked with Play-Doh on the tray of his high-chair. I remember making a little Marcia Clark figure and a little O.J. too. One day I was just absent-mindedly squishing some Play-Doh when I looked down and to my surprise, this is what I had made:

As you can see, it’s a familiar image! I had to think for a moment to place it, but I know that you will recognize it at once as a portion of The Starry Night, by Vincent van Gogh.

This is known as The Play-Doh Miracle, and it will be on file at the Vatican when I am formally declared a Saint.

I was amazed that Amy WInehouse actually made it to the concert for Nelson Mandela. Just days ago at death’s door, she looked like a little Q-tip under her giant hair. Not only did she wear that crazy Blake thing in her beehive, but during her wailing rendition of the old anthem “Free Nelson Mandela” she substituted the lyrics: “Free Blakey, my fella!”

Hahaha! Amy is nuts but godammit I love her. If only we could save her!

You can watch her performance here. Listen up at 5:25 for the shout out to Blake Incarcerated.

In this new reality show, eight women with “differing disabilities” will compete before a panel of judges to prove they have what it takes to be a mainstream model.

Huh?

Is there something wrong with me or is there something wrong with this premise for a show?

On the one hand, I support the disability rights movement. On the other, I’m squeamish about any fetishistic appreciation of the disabled. It feels like exploitation to me, even when the disabled person is so willingly seeking the attention. One of the contestants on the show will be Debbi, who has recently posed for Playboy and says she’s met more men since she lost her arm than before. Here’s Debbi.

This whole thing is making me feel like a cunt for not celebrating the moxie or whatever it is that drives these disabled women. They’re kind of pissing me off, in fact. It’s like, I’m missing a toenail, so why don’t I try to be a foot model? Or, My voice has a limited range, so why don’t I compete to sing opera?

No, those are bad analogies. And that guy who “needs” to be paralyzed is going to be mad at me again.

Can anyone help me to articulate what is wrong with this show? Or if not that, what’s wrong with me?*

*No saying It’s because I’m a cunt, since I’ve already admitted it a million times.

None of us like Handbag Snobbery (unless we are the ones disparaging someone else’s choice of handbag.) I don’t even like it when a person praises my handbag, for god sake. When Susie B wrote about suffering the disdainful gaze of two awful Handbag Snobs on a train, my heart went out to her. I should start making little badges that say “Please don’t stare at my handbag.”

It’s a difficult situation if you care about style and fashion. I love my bags for being both beautiful and expensive. I love them for being not the ones that are obvious and popular. But on some occasions, I don’t want the burden of my enormous handbag. So I pack my essentials into a bag that I selected for it’s stomach-turning ugliness.

Check out its ugly features. The flower thing made out of a zipper, the studded wristlet, the gold handcuff things dangling there for no reason, and the purple plastic that is actually transparent even though you can’t tell from the picture. It is eight X five inches of pure eyesore. All that for $11.

And speaking of eyesore, today at the mall I walked past a shoe-store window and was assaulted by a vision from hell itself: Gladiator sandals in a rainbow of awful colors, signifying to me that gladiators have not only jumped the shark, they have eaten and regurgitated the shark. Behold the wares of Shiekh shoes.

I am getting sick and tired of trying to read everybody’s CAPTCHA in order to prove I’m not a bot. Can’t something be done about this? It’s not a good system for the near-sighted person. I have to squint my eyes and make a guess if it’s an “i” or a “j”. When I get it wrong, I’ve noticed that the next one I get is slightly easier to read. I haven’t tested to see if I can get a third chance. That’s how scientific I am. As I have revealed elsewhere on Godammit, I have an Extreme Girlie Brain. Test your own brain traits if you haven’t already.

While reading about CAPTCHA’s, I started thinking about Artificial Intelligence. A couple of years ago, my youngest son introduced me to A.L.I.C.E, a bot who was capable of better conversation than many husbands, I mean humans.

I recall having a great theological discussion with A.L.I.C.E. At the time, she was pretty sure she believed in god.

Now there’s a bot called GOD, who isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, if you know what I mean. Here is the part of my chat with Him that I was able to copy and paste. (Human is me)

Human: Hi god, you look angry.
God: Try a deeper algorithm.
Human: We are not going to get along.
God: Why, what happened to you?
Human: Hahaha.
God: Try saying that with more or less context.
Human: Life happened.
God: Thanks for sharing your philosophy.
Human: What happened to you, that’s a better question.
God: I don’t know what happened.
Human: Just as I thought
God: Thanks for the information: said thought.

Then, I tried Him again:

Human: Hi god, what’s going on?
God: Hi there . I am a Christian.
Human: Hahaha.
God: Can you speak any foreign languages?
Human: What about jews?
God: I will think about it and get back to you.
Human: Good.
God: What do you really want to talk about?
Human: Please begin.
God: Thanks for asking politely. I started already.
Human: Hahaha.
God: What do you have that is ?
Human: You are quite the trickster, aren’t you, god?
God: Yes I am the one and only trickster.. Really.

I don’t think one can underestimate the importance of hair. As I often say aloud while watching TV, “Hair is everything.” When accused of having an unhealthy preoccupation with hair, I’ve been able to fire off myths and folk tales and biblical stories to support my belief in the enduring significance of hair. Rapunzel, Samson, Medusa, Lady Godiva etc. Then there is the fundamentalist covering-up of hair, as in nuns, orthodox Jews, and Muslim women.

Hair matters! Great hair can raise one’s attractiveness quotient just like bad hair can obliterate it. I once had a friend who insisted that I pose for a $15 video tape on sale at a mall, where different hairstyles were superimposed on my head. (Before we all went digital.) In 12 different styles and hair-colors, I am transformed into a secretary, headbanger, elderly lesbian, and so on.

Today, I came across a story about Liz Jones, a women who described her momentous haircut. Liz Jones is thrilled with her new look, while I find the old look a milion times better.

What do you think? Then there is the writer at Jezebel who shows us her haircut a la Liz Jones.

The photo above is followed by a bunch of compliments, because no one had the heart (or nerve) to say, “Oh no, you cut off your beautiful hair!” In my opinion, this is another tragic haircut, turning a lovely vibrant looking woman into a shorn, innocuous Nobody.

One of my favorite scientists, Steven Pinker, is a member of The Luxuriant Flowing Hair Club for Scientists where you can admire his hair and the hair of many colleagues.

Finally, there is the poignant, beautiful and immortal line from Brian Wilson: “Where did your long hair go, where is the girl I used to know?” Caroline, No is #211 on Rolling Stone’s list of the greatest songs of all time, but we all know that it’s really in the top ten.

The results are in. I have learned that I am too old and cranky to model for a camera, not to mention changing outfits. Notice how these overalls make me look like I’m wearing jodhpurs. I look like a hippo. No matter how many times I am forced to whine that “I’m not fat in real life” god has decided to make me sound like a lying hippo.

Whosoever wants these overalls and wears a US 4 is welcome to them. They have little zips at the ankles, so being short might be a problem. Simply write a nice compliment about hippos and you win!

Here is what happened another time I tried to model.

Oh well. Next time I decide to model something, I will fucking well put on a girdle or truss or something.

On a brighter note, I just found out here that the FIT Museum is putting together an exhibit called “Dark Glamour”, devoted to the gothic in fashion. Thank you, Susan! This is all the excuse I need to plan a trip to New York.